"Some friends remain known yet unknown."
The tires hummed a steady, monotonous rhythm against the asphalt as the car ate up the miles. Thomas Garbett held the steering wheel with an easy, unbothered competence, his eyes tracked on the horizon.
Beside him, Nafisa sat like a statue of cold resentment, her arms locked across her chest as she stared out at the passing landscape.
"Do you *have* to drive yourself, Thomas?" she asked, her voice cutting through the quiet cabin, cool and detached. "Don't you have a chauffeur for that?"
Thomas offered a faint, easy smile, not taking his eyes off the road. "Who do you think I am? A king? Or a lord of some duchy? I like to do my work myself."
Nafisa let out a sharp, mocking sneer. "Pretty big words for a man who dragged an uninterested woman four thousand miles."
Thomas raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his profile. "Don't you like it here? It is your birthland."
Nafisa rolled her eyes, her tone dripping with dry irony. "Birthland? My birthland is the neighbor."
"Doesn't matter," Thomas replied, his smile widening just a fraction. "It was all the same once."
Nafisa paused. She turned her head, her gaze snapping toward him with genuine surprise. For the first time since they had started driving, the icy detachment slipped. "Someone knows his history."
Thomas didn't gloat. He simply returned a quiet, knowing smile, letting the silence settle between them.
The heavy, suffocating tension that had filled the car for hours finally began to fracture. Nafisa let out a long sigh, her defensive posture melting as she stretched her hands out over the dashboard, leaning back into the leather seat.
"So," she murmured, studying his profile, "what's all the mystery around you?"
Thomas turned to her, his eyebrows knitting together in brief, genuine surprise. "Mystery? What mystery? In fact, I am kind of an open book person."
Nafisa rolled her eyes again, but this time, the sharp edge was gone, replaced by something almost playful. "I am sitting right here with you, and yet I don't know a single thing more than your name."
Thomas's smile softened. "Then... all you have to do is ask."
Nafisa smiled, leaning in slightly as the opportunity presented itself. "Where were you born?"
Garbett replied instantly, without a hint of hesitation. "France. Somewhere near Paris."
"Who were your parents?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Garbett."
Nafisa narrowed her eyes at the deflection but pressed on. "How do you know Dempsey?"
"Just a business-related relationship."
"What are you doing here?"
"You will soon know."
Before she could press him for a real answer, Thomas slammed his foot onto the brakes.
The car pitched forward violently with an abrupt, jarring screech of rubber on tarmac. Nafisa gasped as momentum threw her forward, her hands flying out instinctively to brace herself as she almost crashed into the dashboard, saved only by the sudden lock of her seatbelt.
Before the vehicle had even finished settling on its suspension, Garbett unhooked his belt and threw his door open to the crisp outside air.
"We have arrived at the hotel," he announced smoothly, completely unfazed by the sudden stop. He stepped out, leaning back into the cabin just enough to offer a parting glance. "Freshen up and eat something. Your stomach is growling like a lion."
Left catching her breath in the sudden quiet of the car, Nafisa looked down at her midsection. Right on cue, a traitorous, hollow rumble echoed loudly through the cabin. A sudden rush of heat colored her neck, and she looked away, blushing shyly.
The relentless sun beat down on the tarmac, turning the air into a shimmering haze of heat. Nafisa trailed a few paces behind Thomas, her gait heavy, bored, and thoroughly weary. Up ahead, Thomas was in high spirits, pointing at ordinary buildings and mundane street corners, chattering away like an overenthusiastic tour guide.
Behind his back, Nafisa stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes in pure despair.
"Are you sure we have to walk in this scorching heat?" she groaned, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow. "Can't we rent a taxi? I will pay."
Thomas stopped in his tracks and turned around. Before she could process his movement, he stepped forward, scooped her up, and lifted her cleanly into his arms.
"If you don't want to walk, I can carry you," Thomas said, looking down at her with a calm, unbothered expression. "But, please stop nagging."
Nafisa's breath hitched. A sudden, intense heat rushed to her face, turning her cheeks a deep, vivid plum. She wriggled slightly against his grip, mortified. "Put me down. I can walk."
Thomas smiled, holding fast for a beat longer. "Only on one condition. You will not speak another word."
Nafisa nodded quickly, desperate to have her feet back on solid ground.
Thomas set her down with an amused chuckle. His eyes scanned the bustling roadside, landing on a vibrant, colorful display of fruit. He caught Nafisa's arm and pulled her toward it. "Look, a watermelon stall."
Stepping up to the wooden cart, Thomas addressed the vendor. "Hey, *bhaiya*. How much for two glasses of watermelon juice?"
As he spoke, he instinctively raised two fingers and mimicked tilting a glass to his lips, putting on an exaggerated display to bridge the language barrier.
The watermelon seller burst out laughing, shaking his head. "It ain't 1947, sir. We pretty much understand some English."
Thomas's confident posture melted into a rare, shy smile, his own cheeks turning a bit pink at the mild embarrassment.
Seeing him falter, Nafisa stepped in. She gave Thomas a firm nudge to the side and stepped up to the cart. She reached out, picked up a large green melon, and slapped it hard with the palm of her hand, listening closely to the thud. She dropped it and repeated the ritual, slapping her way through ten different melons with practiced precision.
"They aren't very fresh," Nafisa announced loudly, turning a sharp gaze on the vendor. "Just because I am roaming with a foreigner, doesn't mean you can con me."
The melon seller's jaw dropped, a look of profound shock overtaking his face. "What are you saying, *didi*? Believe me! These melons are fresh from the ground."
Nafisa narrowed her eyes, completely immune to the theater. "Two hundred for four. Not one rupee more."
The seller looked utterly aghast, throwing his hands up in the air. "What are you saying? I will die! I will have to close my shop and return to the village at this rate. Two hundred for four? That's outrageous!"
Nafisa firmly planted her hands on her waist, planting her feet. "It's enough. You won't be conning us today."
The seller frowned, looking at the melons, then at Thomas, and finally back to Nafisa, realizing he had met his match. He groaned. "At least give me three hundred."
Without breaking eye contact, Nafisa reached into her purse, pulled out a handful of notes, and counted out two hundred and fifty rupees. She thrust the cash directly into the hands of the still-unconvinced vendor and immediately scooped up four hefty melons.
"Let's go," she commanded.
She hooked her free arm through Garbett's and dragged him down the street at a brisk pace, leaving the bewildered vendor staring at the money before he could utter another single word of protest.
Thomas stared at Nafisa, a mixture of pure amazement and mild shock rippling across his face. He reached out, took one of the hefty green melons from her grip, and tossed it lightly into the air like a ball.
"Impressive," he admitted, catching it. "But how exactly are we going to eat it? We don't have a knife."
Nafisa flashed a sharp, knowing smile. "Who needs a knife when you have this?"
Before he could answer, she clenched her hand into a tight fist and slammed it straight into the center of the fruit. The melon split open with a loud, satisfying crack, fracturing into jagged, juicy pieces. With practiced ease, Nafisa plucked a dripping red chunk from the cluster and thrust it directly into Garbett's mouth.
Thomas blinked, chewing the sweet fruit as he wiped a stray line of juice from his chin. "I definitely didn't make a mistake bringing you with me," he muttered around the mouthful.
Nafisa's smile lingered, but her eyes turned serious. "And yet, you still haven't told me what you are actually going to do."
Thomas swallowed, tossing his rind neatly into a nearby rubbish bin. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, his casual demeanor instantly shifting into something harder, colder.
"Vikram is here," Thomas said, his voice dropping an octave. "My informer said he's planning to make a big move on his old enemies. We just have to stop him—and if possible, end him for good."
The playful light in Nafisa's face vanished, her expression darkening instantly. A shadow of profound exhaustion crossed her features. "Are you sure about that?"
Thomas looked at her, tracking the sudden sadness in her eyes. His voice softened, though the edge remained. "We are all murderers, Nafisa. Isn't it just to kill our enemies?"
Nafisa offered a weak, quiet nod, accepting the harsh reality of their world.
Shaking off the heavy mood, Thomas cracked his knuckles, the sharp pops echoing over the ambient street noise. "Shiva and Ganesh told me they have prepared everything on their end. It's just up to us to begin the operation."
"When do we start?" Nafisa asked, looking up at him.
Thomas waved his hand dismissively. "That's a plan for the future. For now, we have to go to Goa. I have some unfinished business there first."
Nafisa's eyebrows knit together, her curiosity piqued. "What kind of business?"
Instead of answering verbally, Thomas reached into his vest, pulled out a weathered, slightly crumpled photograph, and handed it to her. "He's an old friend of mine. Name's Francis. He left a massive fortune down in Goa, and it's mine to inherit."
Nafisa adjusted the remaining melons in her arm to take the photo, studying the face in the print. "Francis Dortmund? The German?"
Garbett nodded admissively.
Nafisa handed the photo back, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "So, is it just a simple take-and-go... or is there a catch?"
Thomas pursed his lips, tilting his head slightly. "Honestly? I don't know."
Nafisa let out a long, heavy sigh, looking up at the blazing sky. "When is something *ever* easy for us?"
Thomas didn't answer. He just reached down, picked up another broken piece of the smashed melon, and handed it to her. Standing on the sweltering roadside, the two of them stood in silence, looking down at the fractured fruit as they continued eating its sweet, messy flesh, letting the looming danger wait for another day.
"I don't care what you were doing an hour ago. I booked the cab and gave clear instructions to be here at this exact time. You don't get to just say, 'Oh, I got stuck in traffic.' Just buzz off, fool!"
Vikram slammed the end call button and shoved the phone into his pocket. He let out a long, repressed sigh and checked his watch. It was late. Vinay had been discharged earlier that morning and hadn't even bothered to inform him. Vikram had arrived at the hospital only to be met with the cold sting of betrayal—and now, his ride was gone.
Anger burned hot behind his eyes. He stomped his foot against the pavement in sheer frustration, turned on his heel, and strode toward the chaotic noise of the nearby market.
He stopped near a roadside watermelon stall. "How much for a juice?"
The vendor looked him up and down. Still stinging from being scammed by a previous customer, the man had zero patience left for another grifter. "Give whatever you want," the vendor muttered dismissively.
Vikram's face twisted in pure rage. "'Give whatever you want?' Who do you think I am? A beggar?"
Before the vendor could reply, Vikram lunged across the counter, grabbed the man by his collar, and dragged him out into the dirt road. He kicked the man square in the chest, grabbed a heavy watermelon from the pile, and smashed it violently over his head. The fruit exploded in a spray of red pulp and rind. Vikram raised his fists, wanting to beat him into the pavement, but the sudden shifting energy of the gathering crowd caught his attention. Sensing trouble, he spit on the ground and moved on.
He strode rapidly toward an opening in the market, but froze when a familiar voice cut through the ambient noise.
He turned. It was a face he knew instantly. Nafisa.
Vikram ducked quickly behind a large rubbish bin, keeping his eyes locked on her as she and her companion walked past. The market din drowned out most of their conversation, but two words carried clearly through the air: "Shankar" and "Ganesh."
Blood rushed to Vikram's face, turning it a deep, furious red. Nafisa had joined forces with his arch-enemies. He waited in the shadows until their figures blurred into the crowd, then slowly stood up, brushing the dirt off himself.
"You are going to pay for this," he muttered, his voice shaking with venom.....